The Long Way Home
by Lil black dog
Summary: This is a sequel to my story 'The Last Full Measure,' and is an AU retelling and follow-on to the events of the TOS episode 'Errand of Mercy.' This is the story of those left behind. Warning: Character death
1. Prologue

A/N: This is a sequel to 'The Last Full Measure,' and is an AU retelling and follow-on to the events of the TOS episode 'Errand of Mercy.' While the prologue will give one enough information to follow this story, it's highly recommended that you read LFM first, to get the full effect and ramifications of the events in that story, which severely impact this story.

**The Long Way Home**

**Prologue**

"Mister Scott, message coming in from Starfleet," Uhura announced.

"Put it on screen, lass."

"Yes sir," she acknowledged, hands flying over the console before her.

The image of Admiral Komack materialized on the central viewer. _"Mister Scott, our fleet has the enemy on the run, their ships fleeing for the security of Klingon space. Your request to return to Organia in order to search for Captain Kirk and Commander Spock granted. You may disengage from the fleet and proceed there at best possible speed, Commander."_

"Thank ye, sir," the Scotsman said aloud, an "It's about time," muttered softly under his breath.

"_I can't stress enough the importance of this mission, Mister Scott. We need to determine their fate. Both possess enough vital information about the inner workings of Starfleet that it could be extremely detrimental for us should that information fall into the hands of the enemy. The _Enterprise_ is tasked with finding out if they're still alive, rescuing them if they are, or ending it for them if rescue is not an option. Do I make myself clear?"_

"Crystal, sir." The Scotsman could feel McCoy tense beside him. A quick glance in the surgeon's direction warned him to hold his tongue. "ETA to Organia at warp five is…" he hesitated slightly, waiting for the navigator to provide the information, "two hours, twenty-six minutes, sir."

"_Very good, Mister Scott. Carry on as ordered, and inform us of pertinent developments as they arise."_

"Aye sir. Scott out."

oooOOOooo

"Can't we go any faster, Scotty?"

"I'm already pushin' her at warp six, Doctor." The Scotsman had ordered the increase in speed over an hour ago. Something had told him time was of the essence. "Given the damage we suffered durin' that last confrontation wi' the Klingons, I'd say we should be pleased wi' that."

"What's our ETA? Jim and Spock have already been on their own on that planet for over three weeks. If they were captured by the Klingons…" McCoy's words trailed off.

"I understand that, Doctor, but we'll be no good to them if we blow ourselves apart while en route. We'll be there in twenty-two minutes. If they're still there, we'll get them out, one way or another. I suggest ye head to sickbay, Doctor. Odds are, if the Klingons haven't transferred them elsewhere, they'll be in a bad way if they've been prisoners for the last three weeks."

"Fine," McCoy remarked dourly, heading for the turbolift. "Just notify me as soon as we get there."

"Trust me, Doctor – ye'll be the first to know," the Scotsman answered.

oooOOOooo

"Dropping out of warp in five...four…three…two…one," Sulu announced, the ship shuddering slightly.

"No signs of enemy vessels in orbit, sir," a voice from the science station announced. "Scanning the captain and Mister Spock's last known location for human or Vulcan life signs." Several minutes of tense silence engulfed the bridge as the scanner at the science station hummed with activity.

"Found them, sir," the lieutenant announced, glancing over his shoulder at the command chair, "But the readings are extremely faint."

Scott slapped a hand down on the comm unit on the arm of the command chair. "Scott to transporter room!"

"_Kyle here; go ahead, sir."_

"Tie into the science station's scanners and prepare to beam the captain and Mister Spock aboard." He switched channels without waiting for the transporter chief's reply.

"Scott to sickbay."

"_Sickbay, Corpsman Reynolds here, sir."_

"Get me Doctor McCoy, right away."

"_The doctor and a medical team are currently on station in the transporter room sir, awaiting word of the command team's location."_

"We found them, lad. Kyle should be beamin' them aboard any moment now. Make sure sickbay is ready to handle any medical emergency."

"_Doctor McCoy put the entire staff on alert before he left. We're ready, sir," _the young man assured his acting captain.

"Very good lad, they should be there in a few minutes. Bridge out."

Scotty's next call was to the transporter room. "Kyle, report! What the hell's happenin'? Do ye have them or not?"

oooOOOooo

Relief turned to stunned silence as the two seated forms that had just materialized on the transporter platform toppled over, neither moving. McCoy bounded up the stairs, landing on his knees before them, scanner in his hand, but deep down he already knew. "It's too late," he announced softly to the people gathered in the room, "They're gone."

He heard an anguished cry erupt from Chapel, who fled the room, nothing but silence, a defeated sigh and the shifting of feet on the deck to be heard from Kyle and the two orderlies standing behind the gurneys.

At that moment the intercom whistled, but the doctor was oblivious to the conversation that followed.

Brushing the tears from his cheeks, McCoy was appalled at how much the two of them had changed in just three short weeks. Even in death Kirk appeared haggard, drawn as if he'd been subjected to horrible mental anguish. There was no doubt as to the fate Spock had suffered; one look at the deep bruising, the purulent sores peeking out through his tattered clothing, the empty eye socket, the too-thin frame told him all he needed to know. Closing his eyes, chin lifted to the heavens, he railed at Starfleet, at the Klingons, at the universe in general for putting them through this, uttering a string of silent curses to God, to fate, to the Admiralty, to whoever was ultimately responsible. Consumed by his grief, he glanced at the bodies again, and it was then that he noticed it – even in death, their two hands were clasped firmly together. A sob escaped his lips as a modicum of relief flooded him. At least they had been together; been there for each other, been able to offer comfort, support and yes, even love, when they were called upon to demonstrate the last full measure of their devotion.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

_Office of the Klingon Military Governor  
Planet Organia  
Stardate 3289.4_

"Sir?" Krethal swallowed heavily, unable to continue, as Kor looked up from his desk, obviously perturbed at having been disturbed.

"Well, what is it, man? Speak!" the Klingon commander snapped.

"I have been trying to contact the ship, but am unable to raise her, Commander."

"It's probably just your handset, Krethal. Try a different one. Do I have to think of everything?" Kor blustered impatiently, dismissively, his attention focused once again on the mound of reports before him.

"I already have, sir, but none seem to be working. It's as if the ship's no longer there."

"What? You're a fool, Krethal. Of course she's still there," the governor said, grabbing his own communicator and flipping it open. "Kor to _Klothos_." His request was met with static.

At that moment the door to Kor's office was flung open, a junior officer entering in a rush, a small computer PADD in his hand. "Sir, we have just received word that the fleet was beaten back severely at Coridan, and all ships have been recalled – including ours. We have been ordered to hold Organia, and to safeguard the Federation prisoners at all costs," he announced, winded and out of breath.

Kor leapt to his feet. "Idiots!" he said, making purposely for the door, shouldering past the two subordinate officers blocking his path. "Without one of our warbirds in orbit, there's nothing to stop a Federation ship from locating them and beaming them aboard." He hurried down the dimly lit corridor, stopping outside the holding cell. "We need to move them at once, while we still have time. Their comrades are sure to start scanning for them at their last known location." He glared at one of the guards flanking the door. "Well, don't just stand there, open it," he growled harshly.

"Yes, sir," the guard replied, turning around and inserting the key into the primitive lock. But when the heavy wooden door was tugged open, the cell was empty.

oooOOOooo

"Kyle, report! What the hell's happenin'? Do ye have them or not?"

The reply was soft, low; virtually unintelligible.

"Say again, Kyle," Scott asked, unable to comprehend what he thought he'd heard.

"_They're on board, sir…" _came the hesitant reply. The transporter chief paused, the silence excruciating, _"But they didn't make it."_

"I'm not followin', lad – what do ye mean, 'they didn't make it?'"

"_Doctor McCoy just checked them, sir, and he said they're…gone."_ The last word was choked out, barely audible, but the implications of that solitary syllable carried clearly over the open mike. Gasps of disbelief, interspersed with a few sobs, could be heard from all corners of the bridge.

"That can't be. We had a sensor lock on them not two minutes ago, an' the readin's showed they were still alive." Scotty cast a glance at the lieutenant manning the science station, who confirmed the acting captain's affirmation with a nod of his head.

"_That may have been true then, sir, but not now."_ Kyle stopped, unable to say anything more. Scotty's eyes roamed over the bridge. Sulu had gone white, his gaze fixed on his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, shoulders trembling slightly. Uhura was sprawled across her console, face buried in her arms. DeSalle was pounding a fist softly on the navigation board before him, uttering curses under his breath, and Leslie, at the engineering station, was looking off into nothing, a blank, thousand-yard stare the only indicator of his complete and utter shock.

Scotty shuddered slightly, closing his eyes briefly. "Bridge out," he said softly, his voice tight, cutting off the connection to the transporter room. "Lieutenant Harabedian," he growled at the young man at Spock's station. The blue-clad back snapped to attention, the shoulders visibly stiffening. "Scan the surface. I want ye to locate all the Klingon beasties down there," the Scotsman ordered, barely-suppressed anger coloring his tone. The bridge fell silent again as the scanner whirred to life.

oooOOOooo

He simply didn't understand it. When he'd locked onto them the readings had been very faint, but there was no doubt they still lived. Was it operator error? Had he been the cause of this? Seized by a moment of sheer panic, of profound guilt, his eyes swept over the console before him, but all the settings were correct. It wasn't due to anything he'd done – or failed to do.

Kyle's gaze traveled to the only upright figure on the transporter platform. The doctor's shoulders were bowed, bent as if forced to support a weight much too heavy for his slight frame to bear.

Gathering himself, as if with a great effort, the CMO rose to his feet, a hand passing across his face before he turned to face the other crewmen in the room. Walking slowly toward the orderlies, he stopped before the gurneys.

"Please take them to sickbay. Put the bodies…," he paused, licking his lips, "in the morgue. I'll be there shortly, just have some business to attend to first," he finished softly as the men headed for the two, still figures crumpled on the platform. "And don't say a word to anyone about what you've seen here. That goes for you, too Kyle," the CMO said, turning to him. "I want the corridors cleared between here and sickbay. The crew doesn't need to see this," McCoy announced fervently, gesturing to the activity going on behind him. "See to it, Mister Kyle."

"Aye, sir," he acknowledged, a shiver passing through him. He'd expected McCoy to be furious, thundering away at all of them, at nothing, at the sheer surrealism of the moment. That made the quiet, measured voice all the more unsettling. Glancing at the doctor, he wasn't surprised to see the fire, the rage shimmering just behind the watery, icy blue eyes. The ship's surgeon was positively livid. Someone would certainly be feeling his wrath before this day was out. Dropping his gaze, a wave of relief washed over Kyle when he realized it wouldn't be him. He could only sympathize with whoever it was who would ultimately bear the brunt of the doctor's anger.

Movement drew his attention as the orderlies were gently placing the bodies on the gurneys. He glanced to his left in time to see the doors to the transporter room close on McCoy's retreating back, the surgeon's single-minded determination evident in his stride, the set of his shoulders. Only then did Kyle release the breath he'd been holding.

oooOOOooo

"Krethal, get all of our men inside this building. We know there's a Federation ship up there; it's just a matter of time before they start sending troops down. We need to take up a defensible position. The Federation has rules when it comes to war – they won't simply blast us into oblivion from space. If we can keep their troops at bay, we might be able to hold out until our ships return. Besides, if we're holed up here, we can take potshots at them; prevent them from using this planet as we had intended to do. I also want all the buildings in this general area but this one rigged with explosives."

"May I ask why, Commander? Would it not be more practical to disperse our troops over a wide area?" the lieutenant questioned, his confusion evident.

Kor answered with a harsh glare. "You really are a fool, Krethal. It's quite obvious it was only due to your uncle's influence that you have made it this far in the Empire's service." Krethal's blank stare only served to further incense him. "Their scanners will show that the outlying structures are empty. Odds are they'll then use those buildings as staging areas to launch their assault on our position. Once we detect their forces are inside, we can detonate them, taking out as many of their men as possible in the first wave. Besides, if we raze everything in the vicinity, it will leave them no cover; nowhere to hide when their second force arrives. Attacking our stronghold will then involve considerably more risk on their part. If we are to survive at all, to attempt to carry out Command's orders, then the surrounding structures will need to go. Why not kill two targ with the same d'k tahg and wipe out as many of them as possible in the process? If they're going to take us down, I want it to be as costly to them as we can make it. Now see to it, or I swear I'll offer you up as a hostage."

"At once, Commander," Krethal stammered, turning and bolting for the door.

"Kinash," Kor said, turning to the other man in the room, standing stiffly at attention. The junior officer had listened in terror to the last exchange, sweat glistening on a suddenly pale forehead. "I want a complete inventory of all the weapons at our disposal – total number of disruptors and spare power packs, types of munitions and incendiary devices, and total supplies, including food and water. I need to have an idea how long we can hold out based on what we have. Now move!"

"Yes, Commander," the young officer answered, already on his way out the door to Kor's office.

Kor smiled grimly to himself. There was still a chance he could be seen as a hero to this war. Unfortunately, the path to glory had just gotten considerably more difficult.

oooOOOooo

She was running blindly through the corridors of the ship, tears blurring her vision, unable to fully process what she'd heard. _Gone. _The word hung like a black storm cloud in the air, sucking the breath from her, an ominous indicator of what was to come.

Nearly a year had passed since she had declared her love for the Vulcan thanks to the loss of inhibition brought about by the Psi 2000 virus. For the longest time, things had been uncomfortable between them, but recently had started to improve. Not that it mattered now. He was gone. She wiped a hand across her face, startled to find that her feet had taken her unerringly to the doors to sickbay. She knew that her presence would be crucial here; that McCoy would arrive soon with the bodies and he would need her support – any support – in order to be able to complete the grim task that awaited him, not that he'd ever admit to it.

_Oh God, McCoy_, she breathed silently, the doors parting with a whoosh before her as she stepped inside. He and the captain had become quite close during the first ten months of their five-year mission, and even though they were both loathe to acknowledge it, the doctor and first officer had begun a tentative journey toward mutual respect; dare she say even friendship, over the course of the time they had served together. Now both of those relationships had been prematurely snuffed out for the CMO. Dealing with the death of one of them might have been manageable for him, especially if he'd been able to lean on the other as a way to tackle his grief, but losing both at once was a blow from which it would surely take him months to recover. Putting her own feelings of loss, of sadness, aside for the moment, she considered how this turn of events would affect her immediate superior.

It would be brutal, of that she had no doubt.

Mustering a sense of control, of calm, from somewhere, she hurriedly scanned the room. Several pairs of eyes met hers, but what had happened must have been obvious; shown on her face and in her demeanor. They knew simply by the fact that she had returned here without McCoy and the medical team. The eyes flicked quickly away, bodies went rigid; others began putting back equipment that would certainly not be needed now. It was more than apparent by her presence, by her silent admission, that there would be no heroic efforts to save their command team, now or ever. She felt that something needed to be said; needed to be done to ease the despair of those who had assembled here, and to spare the doctor the pain of having to do so.

Clearing her throat, she began speaking, willing her voice to be steady: "I regret to inform you that we won't be needing your services. The captain and Mister Spock did not survive their time in captivity." Her voice faltering, she paused, swallowing her own grief. "You are all dismissed, but please, no word of this is to be spoken outside of this room. Our senior officers will decide when the time is right to do so." The corpsmen and junior nurses were looking at her, despondent and visibly upset. "Thank you all for your dedication to your duty," she remarked, wanting them to know that their unfulfilled efforts were appreciated nonetheless. "You may report to your quarters now, pending further instructions." She breathed a silent sigh of relief as the staff began filing out of sickbay. At least she could spare McCoy having to deal with _that_. She collapsed into the chair at the desk in the main ward of sickbay, trying unsuccessfully to come to grips with the last few, surreal minutes of her life.

oooOOOooo

The bridge remained eerily quiet, save for the beeping and clicking of various electronic devices and the steady hum of the scanner at the science station. The lieutenant manning Spock's position worked feverishly to fulfill his acting-captain's last orders.

Suddenly the doors to the turbolift opened and 180 pounds of Southern fury came pouring out, headed straight for the command chair. "Dammit, Scotty, I told you we needed to hurry," McCoy railed, descending into the inner ring of the bridge.

"An' I told ye we were pressin' our luck to begin with. If we'd tried to go any faster, we never woulda made it here," the Scotsman retorted defensively. "I had a responsibility to this ship an' crew too, as well as one to the captain an' Mister Spock. We both know the captain woulda wanted me to safeguard the _Enterprise_ as my first priority."

The fire flaring behind the doctor's eyes was swiftly extinguished. "I'm well aware of that, Scotty, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow." The doctor paused, clearly struggling with the next question. "Why didn't you tell me they were already dead?" he asked quietly, his voice almost completely devoid of the anger that had marked it seconds before.

"They weren't when we found them. Readin's showed they were still with us. Did those Klingon monsters manage to kill them in those few moments it took for Kyle to lock on an' beam them aboard?"

McCoy swallowed convulsively before providing a soft, hesitant response, his frustration and helplessness etched on his face. "I don't know. Spock was a mess, but none of the injuries I could see were terminal, and there were no visible wounds at all on Jim's body." He stopped as a hitched breath erupted from the communications station. Lowering his voice, he continued in a harsh whisper. "At this stage, I don't have a clue what happened. Maybe a post mortem will shed some light on what those butchers did to them. All I know for sure is that we were too late, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it now."

"Well, there's surely somethin' I can do," the Scotsman announced decisively, turning once again to the science station. "Lieutenant?" he pressed.

"I'm scanning approximately fifty personnel in all, sir, most in a central location, a handful dispersed throughout the buildings surrounding the main square."

"Can we stun them?"

"Negative, sir. We could get some of them, but not all. The vast majority are in a building with stone walls too thick for the ship's phasers to penetrate on a stun setting."

"Then I guess we'll just hafta go down an' get them," the chief engineer muttered under his breath. "Signs of the Organians?" Scotty asked, louder this time, mindful of the primitive inhabitants.

"No sign of them at all, sir."

"None?" Scotty was shocked.

"The only life-forms I'm scanning are the Klingons, sir. No others within a hundred kilometer radius."

"What the hell did they do, kill off all the natives, too?" McCoy asked, clearly furious.

"I dinna ken," Scotty replied, a finger brushing his lower lip, "But I intend to find out." He thumbed the switch on the command chair. "Bridge to security."

"_Security, Giotto here."_

"Mister Giotto, meet me in Briefing Room Two in five minutes. We've got some plannin' to do."

"_Aye, sir. Giotto out."_

Scott closed the channel, looking askance at McCoy, but the doctor shook his head. "I'm a doctor, not a military strategist, Scotty; I wouldn't be much help anyway." McCoy lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's probably not my place to say, but shouldn't you also get input from the tactical team or something?"

"If I were to do that, I'd have to clue them in on what's happened. For now, I'd like to keep the people who know the captain an' Mister Spock are dead to a minimum. I dinna want our actions to be fueled by revenge. Despite the personal impact on this ship an' crew, we have to remember that there's so much more at stake. Those personnel down there could provide a wealth of intelligence for our side."

"Well, whatever the two of you decide to do, just make sure it's not gonna cause an inordinate number of casualties among the crew. I've already got quite enough waiting for me in sickbay," the doctor finished, his eyes suddenly hollow, empty.

Scotty's look softened. He certainly didn't envy McCoy _that_ job. "All right, Doctor, but let me know as soon as ye find out anythin'." The acting captain climbed to his feet. "Mister DeSalle, ye have the con, an' no word of what any of ye have heard from Kyle will be passed on to anyone outside the bridge." He looked around sternly, lending weight to his words. "I'll make an official announcement once we get everythin' sorted out. Mister Harabedian," he said, approaching the science station, "I want ye to locate all those Klingon monsters down there. I want an exact count of how many of them there are, what they're doin', an' where they're located. As soon as ye have all that information, pipe it down to Briefing Room Two. They'll be made to answer for what they've done." He turned on his heel and headed for the turbolift, McCoy a step behind him.

oooOOOoo

She'd been hunched over the desk, face buried in her arms, when the doors to sickbay parted, admitting the orderlies with the gurneys bearing the bodies of the command team. She snapped her head up but the men ignored her, disappearing into the bowels of the medical section with their grim burdens in tow. They emerged a minute later, both exiting into the corridor without a word or a backward glance.

Initially she was concerned that McCoy had not been with them, but soon came to understand that the doctor would need to vent some of his anger and frustration before undertaking the nearly insurmountable task that loomed before him in that small, sterile room. Maybe he was yelling at Scotty, maybe he'd stopped by his quarters first for a good, stiff drink or a cleansing cry. Regardless, the job that awaited him was sure to exact its pound of flesh. She could make it a little easier for him to bear by getting everything prepped ahead of time, ensuring he had to spend the least amount of time possible completing what was sure to be his final responsibility to them. She got to her feet, heading decisively for the ship's morgue.

The room was dark when she entered, the space dominated by the two wheeled beds, their contents hidden beneath thin sheets. Autopsies nowadays were not nearly as primitive as they had been a hundred years ago. Highly sensitive, specialized equipment had done away with the need to cut bodies open in order to discover their elusive secrets.

Studiously avoiding the two still, silent figures she began turning on machines, knowing they would require a few moments to warm up. Gathering the necessary scanners and other diagnostic equipment, she placed them on a tray perched snugly atop a wheeled, metal pedestal. Dragging the stand over to the main diagnostic panel she looked around the room, satisfied. Everything was now in place for when the doctor arrived.

She turned to leave, but as she did so her eyes were inexorably drawn to the two sheeted figures once again. Against her better judgment, she took a step toward the bodies, knowing instinctively which was Spock's, and which was that of her captain. Coming to a stop before the Vulcan's form she caressed his face through the lightweight fabric, feeling her eyes begin to burn, hot trails tracing down her cheeks. Her fingers had grasped the edge of the sheet, preparing to lift it, when a hand on her forearm stopped her. Guiltily she turned and found herself staring into McCoy's eyes, alive with compassion and overly bright and moist.

"Chris, please don't do that. You don't need to see – I don't _want _you to see – what those murderous barbarians did to him." This only caused her to well up once more, and the doctor tugged her into an awkward embrace. "I know what Spock meant to you. I may not have understood it, and I certainly ribbed you enough about it, but I don't want your last memory of him to be this." He swiftly diverted the course of the conversation to a less painful route. "Thank you for getting everything ready, and for clearing sickbay for me. You're excused from duty for the time being. Go to your quarters, the observation deck – wherever you need to – to clear your head and make peace with things. Scotty and Giotto are planning a retaliatory strike, so in all probability we'll have more casualties than we can handle soon enough. If something happens and I need you before then I'll page you, but I'll need you focused; need you to have your head in the game."

She disentangled herself from his arms, meeting his eyes. "Then I'd prefer to stay here and get things prepped if that's okay with you, Doctor. I'd rather be busy; keep my mind occupied instead of being forced to dwell on what's happened."

McCoy's look softened and he reached out to brush the moisture from her cheeks. "Okay then, if that's what you want. Don't recall the rest of the staff until I hear from Scotty. I'll be out to help you as soon as I can…as soon as I'm done here," he said, his face darkening.

Knowing there were no words she could say, nothing she could do that would make this easier for him, she simply squeezed his forearm before departing.

oooOOOooo

Giotto was already seated at the table when Scotty arrived. Slipping into a vacant chair, he drew a steadying breath, opening his mouth to speak, but Giotto beat him to it.

"They're dead, aren't they?" he asked grimly, his voice low, angry. It didn't matter that it hadn't been officially announced yet. Scott knew a good number of the crew had already surmised the truth. That his order of secrecy to the bridge crew would be followed to the letter was a given, but the fact that no one had seen the captain and first officer in the flesh since they'd arrived at Organia was a pretty good indicator of what had happened. It was the mark of an astute security chief that Giotto had already guessed the nature of this meeting.

"Aye. We did find them an' beam them aboard, but we were too late. McCoy's doin' autopsies right now in order to determine the exact cause of death."

"And those responsible?" the man across from him growled, his words short, clipped.

"They're still on the surface. Apparently, the Klingons deserted them. There's no ship in orbit but a whole pack of them are still down there. More'n likely it was recalled to reinforce their fleet after the rousin' beatin' they took at Coridan. As to why those members of their crew were left behind – beats me." He paused as another idea came to him. "Unless they were hopin' to get vital information about Starfleet from the captain an' Mister Spock, given the recent turn in the war. They musta figured it was safer to leave them there rather than risk tryin' to transport them off world an' have the ship carryin' them be destroyed."

"Then why kill them?"

"They musta known we were here an' wanted to prevent us from rescuin' them."

Giotto nodded agreement. "How many of them are there?" he asked at last.

"Lieutenant Harabedian's gettin' me the exact figures now, but estimates around fifty, all within a quarter-kilometer radius at the moment."

The intercom whistled shrilly, interrupting the conversation. _"Harabedian to Mister Scott."_

"Scott here, go ahead lad," the chief engineer replied, activating the three-sided viewer located in the center of the table.

"_Total count is fifty-three, sir, all ensconced in one building. There had been a flurry of activity in the surrounding structures, but all personnel have returned to a central location, groups of eight to twelve personnel scattered throughout the building."_

"Aye lad, thank ye. Keep track of them, an' keep me abreast of any new developments. Scott out." He turned to Giotto. "Well now, what do ye make of that?" the Scotsman asked.

"Honestly, I smell a trap. Odds are they've retreated to what they think is the most defensible position. The fact that their troops are widely dispersed within the structure indicates they're probably waiting for us to attack and probably hoping to ambush us when we do." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It's almost as if by vacating those buildings, they're asking for our people to come down and occupy them. Why? I wouldn't put it past those sneaky bastards to have booby trapped them somehow. If you want my professional opinion, I think beaming troops down to the planet would be a huge mistake, putting our people at risk unnecessarily. Without one of their ships in orbit they're trapped; have nowhere to run; are at our mercy. You know, we could simply use the _Enterprise _to take them out," he suggested, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, eyeing Scott carefully.

"Aye, that we could, but that would deprive us of prisoners. We'll need to find out what, if anythin', the captain an' Mister Spock told them about the inner workin's of Starfleet. We need to look beyond our own loss an' discover the potential ramifications for this war if the Klingons have inside information about our strengths, weaknesses, an' capabilities. Besides, whoever's in command down there may wind up providin' a wealth of intelligence for our side."

"I didn't mean annihilate them, but rather stun them. If we were to do so, and then beam down with a security force, we could round them all up before they came to. It would certainly be the best way to prevent any more of our own casualties."

"Aye, I had the same idea, an' asked Harabedian about it before comin' here, but he says the stone walls of the fortress are just too thick for a wide-angle stun from the ship's phaser banks to penetrate."

"What about transporting them up, then?"

"That's certainly possible. We beamed up the captain an' Mister Spock no problem. But we'd have to use the cargo transporters then, an' bring each lot aboard together. We'd only be able to beam six aboard at a time usin' the main transporter. Beamin' them aboard piecemeal would give the ones who come later the chance to warn their comrades about what's goin' on, or to beam up with live grenades, or disruptors blazin'. That could land a world of hurt on our personnel as well as the ship." Scott paused, his mind racing. "Can your lads rig up a temporary holdin' facility on the hangar deck? We could keep them all there. It's the only space large enough to hold the whole kit an' caboodle together. I can provide ye with all the engineers ye'll need."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Giotto answered momentarily, doing a quick calculation in his head of the manpower and equipment that would be required. "Give me about half an hour."

"That should be fine, lad; it'll give me just enough time to let Command know what's happened."

Giotto shook his head, unsure of who would have the tougher job.

oooOOOooo

She was prepping surgical packs when McCoy came staggering blindly out of the morgue, brushing past her without a word, headed for his office. She hurried after him and found him pouring several fingers of bourbon from the bottle on the shelf behind his desk. He swallowed it in one mighty gulp, collapsing into his chair. Much as she wanted to ask, she held her tongue, waiting for him to speak.

Finally, his eyes met hers. "I don't know, Nurse," he supplied, answering the question hovering unspoken in the air between them. "Jim hadn't been touched, at least not physically, and while Spock did have some severe injuries, none of them were fatal. Near as I can tell, their brains just shut down and I haven't the first clue as to why."

She sank into a chair as well, willing herself to keep it together for McCoy's sake. He rolled the empty glass between his fingers, dropping his eyes. "I have to inform Scotty," he said at last, meeting her gaze. "It's not something I want to broadcast over the ship's comm system. I need to talk to Scotty in person. Will you be okay here until I get back?"

"Yes, Doctor. I've got a dozen surgical packs prepped, numerous trauma kits ready, stores of O negative blood and all the plasma we have on board easily accessible, bone knitters on station, and portable ventilators and cardio stimulators handy. All we need to do is recall the staff and we're prepared for any contingency."

McCoy's look of gratitude was instantaneous. Normally not the most effusive of bosses, his eyes conveyed his appreciation of her taking charge of the situation. "Very well, Nurse. I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, climbing to his feet and disappearing into the corridor beyond. Rising from her chair as well, she returned to the main ward to await the inevitable flood of wounded, unable to spare herself a moment's thought for the Vulcan's fate, not to mention that of the captain. That grief, that release, would have to come later, when she was alone in her quarters.

oooOOOooo

Giotto had left several minutes ago. Scott had placed a call to the engineering section, dispatching half a dozen of his best people to the hangar deck with explicit instructions to assist the security chief and his men however possible. He'd put it off for as long as possible, knowing that he no longer had an excuse to delay the unavoidable. Thumbing the switch on the comm unit, he contacted the bridge.

"_Bridge, Uhura here,"_ came the immediate response.

"I need you to get me Admiral Komack at Starfleet Command, and pipe it down here, lass."

"_Aye, sir."_ Her tone left no doubt that she understood the nature of the call.

Komack's face soon appeared on the desktop viewscreen. _"Commander Scott. I'm assuming you have something to report?"_

"Aye, Admiral, an' I'm afraid the word's not good. Captain Kirk an' Mister Spock did not survive their time in captivity, but we did manage to recover the bodies."

"_I see," _Komack said, pausing briefly, his brow crinkling in consternation. _"And what's the status of the planet?"_

"No sign of the Organians, an' the Klingon ship that was in orbit apparently fled the scene, leaving a contingent of about fifty personnel stranded on the surface."

"_We need them taken alive at all costs. Only they know what information, or lack thereof, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock provided."_

"Aye. That was our thought as well, sir, an' the security chief an' I have already come up with a plan to capture all of them." _Not that there aren't a great number of crewmen here who'd rather see them all dead_, he supplied silently.

"_See to it, Commander. The _Enterprise_ is to remain on station and secure Organia for the Federation. We'll be dispatching support in the form of two additional starships. They should be arriving in fourteen hours, at which time you will depart and deliver the prisoners to Command."_ Komack's look switched to one of grim determination. _"We'll inform the next of kin, and contact you with instructions regarding the handling of the remains."_

"Aye, Admiral. _Enterprise_ out." He switched off the comm unit just as the doors to the briefing room opened, admitting McCoy. The doctor slipped into a vacant chair, the man visibly pale and shaken.

Scotty's look softened into one of compassion for the CMO. "Ye have news then, Doctor?" he asked quietly.

McCoy started, reluctantly meeting the Scotsman's eyes. "My autopsy showed there wasn't a thing wrong with Jim, aside from a touch of malnutrition, slight dehydration, a well-healed cut on his lower lip and a bruise at his temple. No other wounds or signs of blunt force trauma or internal injuries.

"Spock was in far worse shape," he said, pausing, his eyes going vacant as he remembered the state the Vulcan's body was in, "but as horrible and inhumane as his treatment was, as I said before, it didn't cause his death.

"Nearest I can figure, they were beating up on Spock, trying to get to Jim; using their friendship against them. It must have been unbearable for Jim – Spock had to have been in excruciating pain." He stopped, meeting the Scotsman's gaze squarely, blue eyes blazing. "Those animals…even…gouged out…one of Spock's eyes," he added in disgust, the words catching in his throat. He swallowed grimly before continuing. "I figured maybe Jim had finally snapped, went berserk or something, but there was no evidence that he met a violent end. Neither of them died due to physical trauma, in fact."

"Then what killed them? A disruptor on stun at close range, maybe? That would make sense if the Klingons got wind of the fact that we were on our way to rescue them."

McCoy shook his head. "That would have left telltale signs. It just seems like their brains shut down; stopped working."

"Somethin' the Klingons did to them?"

"I really don't know Scotty. Unfortunately, we may never know," McCoy finished dejectedly.

"Well, odds are whoever was in charge down there will know. They're dispersed in several rooms throughout one of the buildin's, an' Giotto an' I have decided to use the cargo transporters to beam each group up all at once. Ye'll be glad to know this should mean no casualties on our side."

"Thank God for that," the doctor answered, a sigh of relief puffing out his cheeks. "When are you going to tell the crew?"

"I just finished speakin' with Command. We've been ordered to capture all the Klingons on the planet, an' stay on station until reinforcements arrive so we can maintain control of Organia. I'll tell the crew after we get them all aboard; even though it was never officially announced most of them have probably already guessed the command team's fate. They're a good crew; they have the right to know." Suddenly, the acting-captain looked much older than his forty-five years.

"I'm sorry, Scotty," the doctor said, climbing to his feet and clapping a hand on the slumped shoulders for a split second before exiting the briefing room. Gathering himself, Scott followed a few moments later, headed resolutely for the shuttle bay.


	3. Chapter Two

****A/N: BTW, no beta on this one. Flying solo as it were...

**Chapter Two**

The comm unit was ringing. She hurried to answer it, the blood freezing in her veins when she realized that the logo for Starfleet was displayed on the viewer. On those rare occasions when her son called, it was never preceded with this. She shuddered involuntarily, seating herself at the desk. Was this the call she had feared for eighteen years? She depressed a switch, opening the channel.

The face of an older man with short, gray hair filled the screen. "Amanda Grayson? Wife of Sarek of Vulcan, Ambassador to the Federation?"

"The same," she answered quickly, a wooden smile plastered on her face. "How may I help you, sir?" _Please, please, please let this be related to Sarek's duties as the Ambassador,_ she prayed silently.

"I'm afraid I'm calling with news of your son, ma'am. I deeply regret to inform you that he was killed in action."

The voice from the comm unit continued ringing in her ears, but the words had become unintelligible. For her, time had stopped, everything frozen into this instant. She had no idea how long it had been – seconds, minutes, hours, – but the voice on the screen gradually filtered back in. "—we can make arrangements to have Commander Spock's remains returned to Vulcan—"

"NO," she interrupted vehemently. "My son dedicated his life to service in Starfleet. I want him interred on Earth, at the cemetery for Starfleet personnel on the grounds of the Academy."

"Of course, ma'am," the admiral stammered. "That can certainly be arranged if that is what you wish. Naturally, I'd just assumed that you'd want him home—"

"Vulcan was never his home," she responded in a hollow whisper. "Starfleet was the only place in the universe where he felt he belonged."

"Uh…I see," came the hesitant reply. "Then I'll certainly make the necessary arrangements. The _Enterprise_ should be returning to Earth in three days. I'll notify you when everything is finalized, so you and the Ambassador can make plans to attend the ceremony. Again, my deepest condolences, Lady Amanda." The vid screen went dark and she got to her feet in a haze, staggering to her bedroom and collapsing on the bed in a paroxysm of tears, giving in to the grief she had denied herself in front of the admiral.

oooOOOooo

Someone was shaking her, the touch on her shoulder gentle, concerned. "What is wrong, my wife? Are you ill? Shall I call for a healer?"

She rolled over, meeting the troubled brown eyes of her husband. "Oh Sarek," she said, fresh tears filling her eyes, latching onto him for dear life, "our son is gone."

"I am aware of that, Amanda," he replied lightly, somewhat baffled by her unexplained behavior. She had conducted herself as a proper Vulcan wife for over three decades now, emotional displays such as this few and far between. She hadn't behaved in this manner since the day their son had announced his intentions to attend the Academy. Nevertheless, he returned the embrace, albeit stiffly, awkwardly; a concession to her culture, not his. "Spock has been in Starfleet for seventeen point eight four years now. He had been gone for quite some time."

"No, no," she said, raising bloodshot eyes to his. "I received a call from Starfleet earlier. He has been killed in action." Sarek released her abruptly, standing to pace the room. "How? When? Where?" he asked at last.

"I don't know," she admitted, wringing her hands. "The admiral who called probably told me, but not much registered after I heard he was never coming back to us." Her voice broke, fresh tears leaking from her eyes.

"And what of his…remains?" Sarek asked finally, the usually firm voice quavering slightly on the last word.

"They were able to recover his body," Amanda informed him.

A soft sigh escaped the usually imperturbable Vulcan. "Then we shall bring him home."

"He is going home, Sarek – to Earth." Her husband raised a questioning eyebrow, which only served to infuriate her. "Vulcan certainly isn't his home; he was never made to feel welcome here, or that he belonged, even by his own father," she stated vehemently. "It was precisely this lack of acceptance that drove him away," she argued through the tears. "A lack of acceptance that was not limited to persons outside of the family," she added pointedly.

"Spock was offered a position at the Vulcan Science Academy. That in and of itself attested to the fact that he was accepted by his peers," her husband responded, revisiting the argument of many years past.

"Too little, too late," she countered, climbing to her feet as well. "A gesture he felt was made by those in a position of power to appease his father more than as a testament to his abilities."

"Regardless of Spock's thoughts on the matter, that is all in the past now and cannot be changed. Kaiidth. We must focus on the fact that Spock chose to live his life as a Vulcan. His katra is already lost to us. It is only fitting that what remains of his physical form be returned here, to the world of his birth," Sarek supplied evenly.

"Why? So those who mocked him in life can continue to do so in death? At least he was accepted, respected, felt at home in Starfleet. That's where our son felt the most comfortable and that's where he'll spend eternity," Amanda announced forcefully. "I've already made the decision, Sarek, and nothing you can say will change my mind. He'll be on Earth in three days, and so will I," she retorted hotly. "As to what you choose to do…" she added, turning on her heel and stalking out of the room without a backward glance. A stunned Sarek could only stare mutely after her.

oooOOOooo

The back end of the hangar deck had been configured into a makeshift brig, a powerful force field spanning the width and height of the room. With the shuttles removed to the fore section, cots had been set up in the aft section to accommodate the prisoners. Their only option for escape was to force the shuttle bay doors, exposing their portion of the room to the vacuum of space. Unless their plan was mass suicide, they had absolutely nowhere to go. Scott looked around with a critical eye, satisfied with the temporary structure.

He signaled to Kyle, who was now manning the cargo transporters. Having a skilled operator was even more important here, given that they would be beaming up live personnel. Designed for simple life forms such as plants, or inorganic or deceased matter only – like larger equipment or foodstuffs – the less sensitive machine required a deft hand to make sure all the atoms were reintegrated properly to ensure the parties arrived alive and in one piece.

"Kyle, tie into Harabedian's sensors an' start beamin' the wee beasties aboard, workin' from the outer rooms toward the interior of the buildin'. If for some reason they get wind of what's goin' on, I want them to have to travel to make it to the outside, where it'll be much easier for them to disperse an' evade capture."

"Aye, sir." Kyle's hands played rapidly over the console, and the first group of nine soldiers materialized on the pad. Instantly surrounded by a heavily-armed security contingent, they were swiftly divested of their weapons.

"You are all prisoners of the Federation," Giotto announced in a loud, forceful voice. "Who's in command here?"

The question was met with silence, the prisoners all stubbornly dropping their eyes to the deck.

"It doesn't matter," Giotto responded calmly. "We'll find out soon enough," he replied, signaling to his men to round up the hostages and secure them in the makeshift brig.

The operation continued for another fifteen minutes or so, groups of between eight and twelve men being beamed up at a time. All appeared to have removed any rank insignias, giving the security detail no information as to the ratio of officers to enlisted men, or who was in charge. Giotto asked the same question of each group and finally, on the last one, several pairs of alien eyes slithered to a stocky, swarthy man, several inches shorter than most of the soldiers in his group, sporting a long, thin mustache. It did not go unnoticed.

"Who are you?" Giotto asked, sidling up to the smaller man.

"My name is Kor," he supplied, "Military Governor of Organia."

"Were you in charge of these men?" Giotto pressed.

"Yes."

"And were you responsible for detaining our crewmen?" Giotto asked cautiously, unsure as to whether or not Kor had known their true identities.

"Yes, we 'detained' your captain and first officer. Perhaps you should be asking them, since they were successfully rescued."

"Are you trying to be funny?" Giotto growled, hands clenching and unclenching at his side.

"Not in the least. We became quite intimately acquainted over the last three weeks. I'm sure they can supply you with whatever information you require about me."

"And just how do you suppose they would do that since they were dead when we beamed them aboard?"

Shock registered briefly on the Klingon's face, before Kor managed to replace it with a calculating sneer. "Then I guess you'll never know," he said, taunting Giotto.

The words were met by a sudden flurry of motion as a member of the security contingent leapt forward, unable to restrain himself. "What the hell did you do to them you son of a bitch?" Ensign Woo Ling launched himself onto the low platform, felling Kor with a backhand powered by the butt of his phaser. Klingon muscles bunched as the remainder of the prisoners prepared to defend themselves. The response was met by fingers tightening on the phasers of the _Enterprise's_ security men as the weapons were trained on their captives.

"Enough!" Giotto shouted vehemently. Everyone in the room froze. "If you make any sudden moves my men will take you all down, that I can promise you," he said, addressing the Klingons. Kor remained sprawled on the floor, rubbing his jaw. Giotto turned to his errant crewman. "Ensign, you're relieved of duty and confined to quarters until further notice. Consider yourself on report." The security chief glared harshly at the young man.

"Yes sir," Woo Ling replied meekly, eyes downcast, unable to meet the angry stare of his superior officer. He scuttled off the low platform, swiping at his eyes with the crook of his elbow, exiting the room without a backward glance.

"All right, get the rest of them in the holding facility," Giotto instructed. It spoke volumes that none of the Klingon crew stopped to help their fallen commander. It was Giotto who finally offered a hand to the downed man. Kor looked up and raised himself to a standing position, studiously refusing the gesture of amity. He turned to follow his men, but the hand that had been offered in assistance moments before landed squarely on his shoulder. "Not you," the security chief informed him icily. "We have other plans for you." He looked to two of his men. "Macalus, Paahana, take him to the brig. I'll be there shortly."

oooOOOooo

She sat at the kitchen table in the empty farmhouse, trying futilely to process the information she'd received only a few hours ago. Dead. Killed in the line of duty. That meant that she was the last surviving member of her immediate family. Her husband, a security officer in Starfleet, had been declared missing last year. He and the members of his team had failed to return from landing party duty, no one able to tell her of the exact fate that had befallen him.

Both her sons were in space, yet she had only feared for the safety of her youngest one, the captain of a starship. Sam had been stationed on Deneva for the last four years, one of the oldest and safest colony worlds in the Federation. As a research scientist, his life was not in jeopardy on a daily basis and of the three men in her life, she had foolishly believed he was the one beyond harm. That made the communiqué she had received last week all the more devastating. Some type of neural parasite had taken over all the inhabitants of Deneva, causing mass insanity among the population at large. The planet had been destroyed in an effort to prevent the spread of the creatures throughout the galaxy. She had lost not only her son, but his wife and her only surviving grandson as well.

When the call had come through several hours earlier she had been sure it was her Jimmy. He must have been informed of the tragedy and been granted emergency leave to come home and be with her for a few weeks, despite the fact that the Federation was at war. But when the face of an admiral appeared on the viewer instead of that of her son, she knew instantly that he had been taken from her as well. He and his first officer had been among the first casualties of the war with the Klingons. She wrapped shaking fingers around the mug on the table before her, the contents having long since gone cold. At least she'd be getting him back. While her husband and her eldest son had been lost to the cosmos, they had recovered Jimmy's remains, and she'd been adamant that she wanted them returned here, to the place of his birth. She would not give him to the universe as well. At least she could bury him here, in the Kirk family plot. While markers above empty graves symbolized the other losses in her life, at least he would be here; could serve as the only thing left to anchor her to this small piece of Iowa.

Absently, she became aware of footsteps behind her, the ancient wood of the dining room floor protesting loudly under the weight of someone passing over it. She didn't turn. It didn't matter who it was or what they wanted.

She was completely alone now.

"Oh Winona, I came as soon as I heard. Please let me know if there's anything I can do." Chubby arms engulfed her, pressing her head to an ample bosom, smelling faintly of alfalfa and manure.

She looked up and into the face of her best friend of fifty years, her nearest neighbor for almost as long.

"Heard what? How do you know, Minnie?" she asked in a fog.

The ebony-skinned woman squeezed into a chair beside her, covering Winona's hands with her own. "They just announced it on the evening news. It should be a private matter for you, but there ain't no way these vultures are gonna pass up a story like that – the captain and first officer of Earth's flagship killed in the first few weeks of this war. It's all over the vids; being carried on nearly every channel."

Tears that had stubbornly refused to fall for the last hour now began trickling forth. This somehow made it real, true. Before she could simply deny it, pretend it was all part of some horrific nightmare, but Minnie's presence here, her confirmation of the news the admiral had shared with Winona brought home to her the fact that this was no dream. The last of her men was gone, the final one to fall victim to the cold, indifference of space.

"First George, then Sam, now Jimmy. It ain't fair, and it don't make sense. I wish you'da been able to persuade him – persuade all of them – not to go," Minnie offered helpfully. "They belonged here, on the farm, with you, not gallivanting around the universe."

Winona favored her with a smile laced with sadness, sniffling softly, absently tucking a stray wisp of graying hair behind an ear. "That wouldn't have worked. Jimmy and George both loved space. It was their destiny. If I'd quashed that love, selfishly forbidden them to follow their dreams, they wouldn't have become the men I knew and loved." She pinched the bridge of her nose, a hitched breath squeezed from her chest. "Sam is the one my heart goes out to. Don't get me wrong, I miss them all terribly, but he was more like me, more grounded, more centered. He wasn't looking for adventure, but stability. He thought he'd find it on Deneva, and frankly so did I. I had steeled myself for the fact that the cosmos would claim George and Jimmy someday, but Sam…I wasn't prepared for Sam." Her hazel eyes sought the dark brown ones of her friend. "Oh Minnie, what am I going to do? They're all gone." She dissolved into tears, sprawled across the wooden table, completely and utterly consumed by her grief. Minnie began rubbing her back, whispering words of comfort, trying to offer some small measure of consolation to one who had lost so much; who had essentially lost everything that mattered…

oooOOOooo

"_Scott to sickbay."_

McCoy stepped to the viewer on his desk, opening the channel. "McCoy here; go ahead Scotty."

"_Just wanted to let ye know ye can stand down, Doctor. We got all of them aboard an' suffered no casualties."_

McCoy breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good to hear, Scotty."

"_However, I do need ye to do somethin' for me,"_ Scott continued.

"Name it."

"_I need ye to meet us at the brig, an' bring a hypo of truth serum with ye."_

A shiver passed through McCoy, speculation running rampant as to what had fueled that request. "I'll be there in five minutes. McCoy out." He headed for the main ward of sickbay, pausing to rummage through the controlled substance cabinet.

This caught Christine's attention. She appeared at his elbow. "Doctor?" she asked uncertainly.

"Scotty just called," he began without preamble. "They managed to beam all the Klingons aboard without any casualties to our side." He paused momentarily, turning and meeting her eyes. "We dodged that bullet," he said, noting the look of profound relief that had settled over her features. "However, I have been ordered to report to the brig with truth serum."

A silent exchange as to the reason for the request passed between them.

"Since we won't have to deal with a large number of casualties now, you're excused from the rest of your shift, Nurse." He grasped her lightly by the shoulders. "I'll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, call some of the junior staff back and take some time for yourself."

She felt a fresh wave of grief swell up and envelop her, dropping her eyes to the floor.

"Again, I'm so sorry, Chris," he said, his voice etched with sadness.

She glanced up, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry, too. I know this has to be hard on you as well; hard on the entire crew." Now it was his turn to look away. "Our Command Team was well-liked. The crew always felt they were important in the captain and Mister Spock's eyes; that their welfare mattered, came even before the mission at hand. It's going to be a transitional period for all of us."

"You've got that right," the doctor agreed. "We're gonna have to be prepared to do some grief counseling over the next few days. This will likely hit everyone hard, but the bridge crew especially. We need to make sure that everyone holds it together. With a war on, we can't afford to not have everyone functioning at the top of their game."

"But surely we won't be sent into the combat zone, at least not for a while?" she asked in genuine surprise.

"I would hope Command would understand that the crew needs time to process and come to grips with what happened, but you never know with bureaucrats. They tend to have their own agenda." He paused, eyes flashing. "I'm sure Scotty will argue the point. Besides, there's still the matter of the bodies, and our Klingon prisoners. Both will have to be dropped off at some point."

"I guess you're right, Doctor," she conceded, her features clouding over once more.

"Well, I should get going; Scotty's waiting for me," McCoy announced brusquely, effectively ending the conversation. "Go get some rest, Christine. I'll see you in the morning." Giving her shoulders a final squeeze he turned and headed for the doors to the corridor.

As they swished closed behind him, she began returning equipment that wouldn't be needed to its proper storage spaces. However, her thoughts kept drifting to the morgue, and the two silent figures she knew were housed there. Unsure of what was motivating her, she found herself outside the doors to medical's most ominous facility.

Against her better judgment, she stepped forward, activating the sensor that parted the doors. Slipping quietly into the darkened room, she was certain only that it was vitally important to her to know, to understand fully the Vulcan's fate. With her heart in her mouth, she headed for the two active stasis units, each labeled with the name of the occupant. Pausing before Kirk's, she laid a hand on the door. "Thank you, sir," she whispered quietly. "It was due to your support, and thanks to your urging, that I decided to stay with the ship after we learned of Roger's fate." She paused, suddenly having difficulty breathing. "You were a good man, adored by your crew, and certainly deserved better than this."

Having acknowledged her captain, she swallowed nervously, stepping to Spock's unit. Depressing a switch, the door slid aside, the body of the Vulcan, no longer hidden from view by the sheet, slowly emerging…

oooOOOooo

Kor was already in the brig, Scotty and Giotto inside with him, when McCoy arrived. The guards outside disengaged the force field momentarily and he entered, the Klingon seated at a low table, flanked by the two _Enterprise_ men. Their interrogation of the prisoner was already underway. At the moment, Giotto was speaking.

"What were your plans for this planet?"

"The same as yours. Use it to our advantage."

"How?"

Kor merely smiled in return.

"Where are the Organians?"

The Klingon's grin turned into a look of disgust. "It seems they didn't have the stomach for war."

"And?"

"And they simply disappeared."

"What do you mean by 'disappeared'?"

"They vanished."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Without any help from you or your men?"

"They were pacifist sheep," the Klingon spat out. "It would have been undignified and dishonorable for my men to have had to dispatch them."

"Then where did they go?"

"I have no idea. I am not the Organians' keeper. My mission was to secure the planet for the Empire. I did that. The fact that they were gone made my job that much easier."

Seeing this line of questioning was going nowhere, Giotto changed the subject. "What did you do to our men?"

"What was expected of me."

"You were expected to torture them to death?" this from McCoy, who found he was no longer able to hold his tongue.

"No. I was expected to glean all the information I could that would be helpful to our cause. I'm pleased to say I was most successful in that area. Until they were rescued they provided a wealth of useful intelligence. Killing them would have been counterproductive."

McCoy stepped closer, his face now mere inches from Kor's. "But killing them once you knew we were here, once you knew their rescue was imminent, would have fit right in with your little plan," the doctor ground out belligerently, waving an arm angrily before him.

"I assure you, gentlemen, I have no idea what caused their ultimate demise," Kor replied blandly.

One of the guards at the door signaled to Giotto. The security chief stepped close to the glowing barrier. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, the guard on the other side began speaking. "Message for you, sir. Our troops found a device on the planet the Klingons call a Mind-sifter. One of their men informed us it's used to force the truth out of prisoners, but can destroy the mind or even kill at the higher settings."

"I see. Thank you, Mister Paahana," Giotto intoned distractedly, stroking his cheek. He headed back to where the prisoner was seated.

"Tell me about this device called a Mind-sifter, Commander," the chief of security asked tersely.

Kor merely folded his arms across his chest, favoring Giotto with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I'm sorry, Commander, but that information is classified."

Giotto glanced at McCoy. "Doctor, I think it's time for the truth serum." Kor tried to bolt but was thrust back into his seat by Giotto; held firmly in place by Scotty's iron grip on his shoulders as the CMO approached, hypo at the ready. The device hissed against Kor's neck and the Klingon went rigid momentarily, before a blank look settled over his features, his extremities visibly relaxing.

"Now Commander, let's try that again," Giotto said. "What is the purpose of the Mind-sifter?"

Kor began speaking in a monotone, his eyes wide, unfocused. "It is designed to extract the thoughts from any mind, breaking down all pretenses and getting straight to the truth about any information the operator requests."

The three _Enterprise_ men exchanged glances, concern clouding their faces, before Giotto continued. "Did you use it on the captain and Mister Spock?"

"Yes," came the dull reply. "We used it on each of them once."

"Only once?"

"That was all that was necessary."

"And?" the chief of security pressed. "What information did they supply?"

"None."

"Why?"

"They resisted."

"How? I thought that wasn't possible."

"So did we, but it seems we were in error. The Vulcan's mind was highly disciplined. He was able to trick the device at a setting that would have destroyed the mind of most had they been forced to endure it at that level."

"And Captain Kirk?"

A vacant smile played briefly over the Commander's lips. "His mind was also remarkably resistant. Kudos to your Starfleet training. We used level two on him. It proved to be most painful, but still he refused to give us what we wanted. Had I ordered it set to the next level, the machine would most assuredly have killed him before he divulged any useful intelligence. I couldn't risk that."

"So you decided to torture them instead to get what you wanted," McCoy threw out in a guttural whisper.

"No. We only tortured the Vulcan. Again, our methods would have killed Kirk long before he told us what we wanted to know."

"Then why torture Mister Spock?" Giotto asked, knowing the Vulcan's superior physical and mental strength would have prevented him from disclosing anything of value to the enemy, regardless of their treatment of him.

"To get to Kirk. It was clearly apparent that the two were more than captain and first officer. I made Kirk responsible for the Vulcan's suffering. His friend's agony would end only when Kirk divulged Starfleet's most closely-guarded secrets."

"I knew it," McCoy spat out. "You sick bastard. There are rules regarding the ethical treatment of prisoners—"

Giotto's hand on his shoulder stopped the doctor's verbal tirade.

"So neither of them broke?" the chief of security asked quietly.

"No. In three weeks we learned absolutely nothing." Kor's lips twisted into a sneer. "Except how much physical pain a Vulcan can endure, and how much emotional pain a starship captain can withstand without being completely destroyed. It still amazes me, just how much Kirk was willing to let the Vulcan undergo in order to protect Starfleet's most sensitive information. It was clear what was more important to him. So much for friendship."

McCoy turned away, closing his eyes, smacking a fist into his palm with a resounding thud.

Scotty and Giotto's gazes locked briefly. Despite extremely brutal treatment, their command team had carried out their duty to the Federation. Only one question remained.

Scotty leaned on the table in front of Kor. "How did ye kill them?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

"I told you – we didn't. My goal was to keep them alive at all costs. In that respect, I've failed the Empire."

"Ye've failed in more ways than one," Scotty retorted. Standing upright, his eyes shifted to Giotto's.

"That's all I need for now, sir," the security chief responded. "I'll get in touch with my people on the ground and have the machine beamed aboard for further analysis." Giotto turned and headed for the door.

However, the Scotsman wasn't done with his interrogation just yet. He focused on the prisoner once again. "All right, Commander, tell me about the Organians."

oooOOOooo

Fleeing the morgue, Chapel slapped her hand on the nearest comm unit. "Corpsman Reynolds and Nurse Takahashi, please report to sickbay," she managed to choke out, the message reverberating throughout the huge ship.

Acknowledgement was almost instantaneous. _"Reynolds here, ma'am. We'll be there shortly."_

It was all she could do to maintain her composure when the two arrived in sickbay. "Doctor McCoy is in the brig assisting Mister Scott. He'll be back shortly. In the meantime, you two are in charge. Notify me if any problems arise before the doctor returns. I'll be in my quarters," she informed them, exiting sickbay before either could respond.

oooOOOooo

"Sir, I'm pleased to report that we retook Organia without a fight, an' that neither Captain Kirk nor Mister Spock gave the enemy any vital information."

"_Are you sure, Commander?" _

"Verified. We used truth serum in order to get a credible response from the Klingon Commander who was in charge. The Command Team didn't pass on any information that was detrimental to Starfleet or could compromise our position with regard to the war."

"_Did you get any useful intelligence from them?"_

"Their Commander had no current tactical information. They were left behind to safeguard their prisoners an' maintain control over Organia, but weren't provided with any pertinent information about the immediate movements of their fleet."

"_I see, Commander. And what about strategic information?"_

"We didn't get that far before the effects of the truth serum wore off," Scotty confessed bluntly. "Besides, we figured that could wait until we delivered the prisoners, an' intelligence personnel were on hand to accurately analyze an' assess their overall military power an' capabilities."

"_And what of the Organians? Did you manage to locate them? Have they agreed to help us now that they have had a taste of living under Klingon occupation?"_

Scotty swallowed briefly before answering, folding his hands on the desk before him. "As I said before, there's no sign of them, Admiral. Accordin' to what the Klingon Commander told us under the influence of the drug, they were a far superior race to either us or the enemy; had done away with their corporeal forms millennia ago, an' just up an' disappeared when it became obvious our two sides intended to battle it out. Apparently they dinna want to be caught in the middle."

"_Then where did they go?"_

"I dinna ken, sir, nor did the Klingon Commander, but one thing's for sure: If we're not careful how we treat their planet, there's no doubt they could reach out an' squash us like flies."

"_Do you think that's likely? Have you found any evidence to support that claim?"_

"Not yet, Admiral. Commander Giotto's team is searchin' the town for clues at the moment, but they obviously saw fit to allow the Klingons to occupy their world for three weeks without interferin'. Just somethin' to consider before we decide to base a large number of assets here."

"_I see."_ The admiral pressed weary fingers to his eyes in a fruitless attempt to scrub away the exhaustion that had settled there. _"I'll pass that information along to our military strategists. We did get in touch with the families. Both bodies are to be returned to Earth, so once the _Lexington_ and _Excalibur_ arrive, you are ordered to return there. In the meantime, keep me abreast of any new developments."_

"Aye, sir. Scott out."

oooOOOooo

She wasn't a drinker, at least not usually. She had brought this bottle of Australian Sparkling Shiraz aboard to celebrate her reunion with Roger. When it became clear that that would never happen, she had decided to save it to commemorate the end of their five-year mission. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she would be drinking it alone as a way to pay tribute to lives, a life in particular, that had ended all too soon.

Now the bottle was two-thirds empty and she was cried out, the pleasant numbness replacing the surrealism of the last few hours.

Her thoughts were interrupted as a new sound disturbed her solitude. Strident, insistent, it took a few moments to register that it was the buzzer to her quarters.

"Come in," she called absently, distractedly.

A burst of red entered in a flurry, soft, willowy arms enveloping her where she sat. "Christine. I'm so sorry. We heard Kyle's report when Scotty called the transporter room." A pause as the speaker collected herself. "I came as soon as I could; as soon as my shift was over."

She latched onto the shorter woman, burying her head in the safety of her friend's shoulder, fresh tears springing to eyes that had run dry hours ago. After allowing herself that brief moment of comfort, of equanimity, she firmly pushed the other woman away, gesturing to an empty chair across the desk. "Nyota. Thanks, but I'm okay. Really," she said, mustering a half-hearted smile from somewhere.

Her companion slid into the empty seat, concerned eyes searching her face. "Those of us who know are all suffering, all reeling, but somehow I knew it would be worse for you." Strong fingers found her hand; squeezed reassuringly; affectionately.

"Somehow I can't believe that. I only knew them peripherally, but they were both so kind to me – the captain, when we found out what had happened to Roger, and Commander Spock…" She paused briefly, her cheeks flushing. "He never held me accountable for what happened thanks to the Psi 2000 virus. Never belittled me, or made me feel like I was to blame. But you," she met her friend's eyes squarely, "you worked with the two of them on a daily basis." Chapel let out an anguished sigh. "I can't even begin to imagine how horrible this must be for you, or the rest of the bridge crew." Unapologetically, she held out the bottle.

Uhura seized it, not even looking for a glass, but sipping directly from the long, slender neck. "As awful as it is, I can't afford to dwell on it – none of us can," the communications officer informed her steadfastly. "We're at war now, and we can't afford not to be on top of our game. We owe them that at least, not to mention Scotty. It was never his intention to be sitting in the center seat, but like it or not, that's where he is now, and we all need to be at our best, for his sake if for nothing else."

A new thought occurred to the lieutenant. "How's the doctor holding up? From what I could tell, these were his two closest friends in the universe."

"He's doing his best to keep it together, but I know these deaths have hit him much harder than he's willing to admit. Unfortunately, the one man he was most likely to have shared his grief with isn't with us anymore." She paused briefly as a shudder passed through her. "On top of that, I do know that he's having difficulty coming to grips with what they did to Mister Spock."

"He hinted about that on the bridge, but didn't say outright what had happened." The lieutenant took another long pull at the bottle.

Christine wrapped trembling fingers around her glass, raising it shakily to her lips. "It was sickening. It's hard to believe any sentient race is capable of committing the atrocities the Klingons did." The nurse wiped at her eyes before continuing. "They took his eye, and the tip of one of his ears was gone. I didn't look any further than that." Her mind slipped to the darkened room; the smell of infection that had permeated the enclosed space as soon as she'd opened his stasis unit. The sight that had met her eyes as the Vulcan's body began to slide forth slowly on a metal tray, emerging head-first, filled her field of vision. Upon seeing his face alone she had turned away, quickly depressing the switch that had returned him to the shadows. She fought to suppress the nausea, the sheer anger the memory had evoked. "There must have been more, judging by how upset the doctor was when he was done with the autopsies. He did say that Mister Spock's injuries were severe. I don't know how he got through it. As for me, I didn't want to know what else they'd put him through, or the captain. I can't even begin to imagine the pain Mister Spock must have been in." Tears were falling like rain now, splashing the desk below.

Uhura reached out, covering Christine's hand with her own. "Oh Chris, I'm so sorry you had to see that." Anger and compassion vied for control over her features. "I can't believe Doctor McCoy was insensitive enough to make you assist him with that."

Christine was quick to defend her boss. "He didn't. He did the autopsies alone. Before he started I was about to uncover Mister Spock's body but he stopped me, sent me out of the room; said he didn't want me to see what they'd done to him." She turned to her friend, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Even though I'd been warned, I went into the morgue when Doctor McCoy was called away from sickbay. I just had to know. I felt like I owed Mister Spock that much. If I really cared about him, I believed it was my duty to understand his final moments." She stopped, fortifying herself with another gulp from her glass. "But McCoy was right. Whenever I think of him now, it will be overshadowed by that image. I should've listened to him; trusted that he knew what was best."

Uhura's slender fingers squeezed hers reassuringly. "Oh Chris, I don't know what to say, except that remember that at least the captain was with him. That must have brought him some measure of security, of peace. Focus on that, Chris. Take solace in the fact that he didn't have to go through that alone."

"That's the only thing that's given me some comfort, but it must have been unbearable for both of them. Doctor McCoy said the captain hadn't been touched, but he must have been in such emotional turmoil. They may not have hurt him physically, but it must have been next to impossible for him to see Mister Spock in so much pain on a daily basis. And in turn, Mister Spock would have sensed the captain's distress, and found that upsetting. They were so close. Emotional pain takes its toll, too. Those weeks in captivity must have been horrific for both of them."

Their conversation was interrupted by the whistle of the shipwide intercom. Glancing at each other, they tightened their grip, knowing instinctively what was to come. Scotty's measured tones echoed throughout the corridors of the massive ship as the entire crew stopped what they were doing at the moment, focused solely on the words reverberating from every speaker and comm unit.

"_All hands, this is the acting captain. I regret to inform ye that our rescue mission to Organia was not successful. While we did manage to recover the captain an' Mister Spock, neither survived their time in captivity."_ There was an agonizing moment of silence as the Scotsman composed himself. _"I know this is a terrible blow for all of us, but we must find it within ourselves to persevere in the face of this unexpected tragedy; must continue performin' to the best of our abilities. If we want to truly honor them, this is the way to do it, for it's what they would expect from us. They gave their lives in support of this mission, an' we need to honor that sacrifice by doin' whatever's necessary, whatever's required of us, to finish what they started._

"_We did successfully capture all of the enemy personnel on the planet, an' once we are relieved by the _Lexington_ an' the _Excalibur_, our orders are to deliver them to HQ for debriefin'. We will also be returnin' the bodies of our command team to their families on Earth. It seems we'll get a respite from this war, however brief that might be. That should allow us enough time to get past this an' focus on the task at hand._

"_In the meantime, there will be a memorial service tomorrow at 18:00 for Captain Kirk an' Mister Spock. Those who are able are encouraged to attend; for those who can't the service will be carried live throughout the ship._

"_An' now ladies an' gentlemen, let's get to work. Make me proud, but more importantly, make _them_ proud. Scott out."_

The two women looked at each other, tears glistening in their eyes. It was official now; their captain and first officer had just been declared dead.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

It had been a long day. No matter where he went, he could feel their eyes following him, was acutely aware of the sense of mourning that had settled over his silver lady. He had tried to do what he could; console those who had spoken to him, offer silent support to others, but now he was just plain bone weary, and more than a little concerned about one soul in particular. They had all suffered a profound loss this day, but none more so than one Leonard McCoy. He had been closer to the captain and first officer than anyone on board, and was one crewmember whose critical skills would be needed in the days and weeks to come. Scott felt compelled to check on the man; make sure he would be able to get past this loss and still be able to function, but even more importantly, now that the third-in-command had been thrust into this position of responsibility for the 430 individuals aboard this vessel, he needed someone whose judgment he could trust; someone who would offer sound, unbiased counsel no matter the situation. And he was certain that, more so than any other officer aboard, McCoy could provide him with this.

Pausing outside the surgeon's quarters he took a deep, cleansing breath, wiping a fatigued hand across his face before ringing the buzzer to the man's cabin.

"Come." The hesitant reply was muffled by the closed door between them.

Scotty entered to find the doctor ensconced behind his desk, hands clasped loosely in his lap, the room dimly lit.

"Have a seat, Scotty," McCoy said, gesturing to the empty chair. Scott slipped in without a word. "I'd offer you a drink," the CMO continued wearily, "but I locked all my booze away. I'm afraid once I start I won't be able to stop, and being drunk to the point of oblivion is a luxury I just can't afford right now."

Scotty nodded in agreement. It was a notion he'd struggled with as well over the last few hours. The mantle of command was already weighing heavily on his shoulders, and that burden was about to get heavier still.

"I came to ask a favor of ye," he began, satisfied that he'd already received an answer to the primary concern that had brought him here.

"Shoot. I'll do my best to help, if I can."

"I'd like ye to say a few words at the service tomorrow," he asked, eyeing the surgeon warily.

McCoy sighed heavily, puffing out his cheeks, a hand running through hair that was already unruly, as if this gesture had been repeated many times during the previous hour.

"I kinda thought that's what this was about. And I've already decided, I owe them that much at least. I'll do my best, Scotty," he said, meeting the Scotsman's gaze squarely, "But I can't guarantee I'll be able to keep it together for long."

"I'm not plannin' on a long memorial – twenty minutes or so at the outside. I think draggin' it out will unnecessarily upset the crew. There's just too much at stake right now. We can't afford not to have everyone operatin' on all thrusters."

"I agree. I've already got things set in place to offer grief counseling for those crewmen who feel they'll need some help getting past this."

"Thank ye, Doctor. I knew I could count on ye to ensure the welfare of the crew." Now it was the Scotsman's turn to pause, lips pursed, forehead lined with concentration. "Unfortunately, there's somethin' else I need yer help with." McCoy didn't say a word, his gaze steady, unswerving as he waited for Scott to continue. "Command just contacted me a short while ago; seems my position as captain is to be made permanent."

"Is that what you want, Scotty?" McCoy asked quietly.

"What I want is irrelevant. The fact of the matter is we're at war, an' right now command-level personnel are at a premium. Even were I to turn down the assignment, they'd be hard-pressed to find someone qualified to take the job. They also realize that the loss of our command team was a tremendous blow to everyone on board, an' they'd rather have someone the crew is already familiar with assume command."

"For once, I have to agree with the muckety-mucks. It'll be a much easier transition for everyone involved. But I don't understand – how do I fit in?"

Scott turned serious eyes onto the surgeon. "Over the last year, ye provided Jim Kirk with sound advice an' counsel, an' weren't afraid to make yer opinion known, even if it flew in the face of what ye knew he wanted to hear." Scott paused, locking eyes with the surgeon. "I'll need that same kind of moral support. Can I count on ye for that?"

McCoy pressed a fist to his chin, the blue eyes swirling with doubt. "I'm flattered, Scotty, but I'm just an old country doctor. Jim relied on Spock's opinion just as much as mine, more so sometimes, in fact."

"Aye, an' I'm plannin' on doin' the same, but I'll need yer help, too – if ye're willin' to provide it."

"That will depend on who your XO is. He or she may not want me meddling in things, particularly since I'm not a line officer. Any idea who it'll be?"

"Command insisted I promote someone from within. Right now, I only see one possible choice."

"Sulu?" McCoy asked uncertainly. "He's probably the most experienced officer aboard who's qualified for the job."

"Aye, he was one of my top two as well, but given the situation, I'll need his experience an' expertise at the helm. Over the course of this war, we're likely to find ourselves doin' battle quite a bit. An exceptional pilot will be worth his weight in gold."

"Then who?"

"I was thinkin' DeSalle. The captain an' Mister Spock had already selected him as the _Enterprise's_ REFLEX* candidate. They obviously saw potential in him, an' since he was already bein' groomed as a First Officer, he'll just be takin' the job a few years early."

"DeSalle hadn't even crossed my mind," the doctor admitted, "but now that you say it, he's the perfect choice – talented, gifted, experienced in a number of areas, level-headed, well-liked by the crew. Definitely someone you can work with. I think he'll be a good fit."

"My thoughts exactly." The two fell silent for a moment, before Scott clambered to his feet. "I'll go get in touch with Command, submit his candidacy an' see what they say. Good night, Doctor," he remarked, heading for the door.

"Good night, Scotty. Well, I guess I'd better start thinking about what I'm gonna say tomorrow," McCoy replied softly.

Scott stopped, turning to glance at the CMO once again. "Thank ye, for everythin' Leonard," he said earnestly, his face softening into a look of gratitude, before tripping the sensor and disappearing into the brightly-lit corridor beyond, once again leaving McCoy alone with his thoughts.

oooOOOooo

The _Lexington_ and _Excalibur_ had arrived as scheduled, and the transition of power on Organia had gone smoothly. The _Enterprise_ was now en route to Earth as ordered. Scott waited behind the podium, McCoy seated to his right behind him, as crewmen slowly filed into the ship's chapel.

Lieutenant Vincent DeSalle had been approved as the new First Officer, and Scott had presented the proposed advancement in his duties to the young man several hours ago. He'd been hesitant at first, but had accepted the position. The two of them had decided not to tell the crew about their new assignments until after the remains of their current Captain and First Officer had been delivered to their families; until the promotions had been made official by Command. To them, it just didn't seem fitting to publicly claim those titles while the bodies of those who had preceded them were still on board.

Rousing himself from these thoughts, Scott noticed that all the seats were full, the video link up and active, broadcasting the service throughout the huge ship. His eyes settled on DeSalle, Sulu and Uhura, seated together in the front row. Chapel was off by herself, standing near the door, almost as if she thought she might need to make a hasty retreat from the proceedings.

Scott looked at the sea of faces, many already visibly upset, waiting expectantly for him to begin, and he took a deep breath in preparation.

"Thank ye for bein' here today," he said without preamble. "This service is to pay tribute to Captain James T. Kirk an' Commander Spock, the finest command team in the fleet. Their absence will be keenly felt, not only on this ship, but throughout Starfleet. The only thin' I can say is that they gave their lives valiantly, in performance of their duties, an' I know neither woulda wanted it any other way. They wouldna have believed their sacrifice was in vain, an' neither should we. We're not here to debate the wisdom of their choice, but rather celebrate the lives of two men who were the very embodiment of what it means to serve.

"We have much to learn from them, about what it means to be an officer in Starfleet, about sacrifice, an' about friendship, an' we can only aspire to the examples they set. This comin' war with the Klingons promises to be a long an' arduous one, an' each of us must be prepared, as they were, to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to support the greater good. Ye can bet that neither went down without a fight, an' that right until the very end they refused to compromise their principles. Each of us must be prepared to do the same, with the ultimate goal of makin' this war as short-lived as possible, an' approach it prudently with respect to lives lost. We've already paid with some of our dearest blood, so if there's anythin' we can do to effectively cut down on the duration of this conflict then we are obligated, are duty-bound to do it. We expected no less of them, an' they would expect no less of us. Let's make them proud, an' show them we learned the lessons they taught us well. Let's carry on the legacy they began, that this ship an' her crew are the finest in the fleet. Ladies an' gentlemen, we owe them that much at least."

Heads were nodded in agreement around the room, a few "aye, sirs" and "we will, sirs" thrown in for good measure. Scotty relaxed slightly. Command was a job he didn't particularly want, but if it was being imposed upon him, he could think of no better crew to help him meet the challenge. Despite what had happened, they'd all get through this together.

"While my experience with them was mostly professional, there is one man among us who was part of their inner circle. I think it's only fittin' that he speaks to who they were as men, as individuals." Scott favored McCoy with a look of support as the surgeon approached the podium. Settling into the chair the doctor had vacated, the acting captain waited patiently for him to begin.

Pursing his lips, McCoy's quiet, measured tones soon filled the room. "Where do I start when describing a man like Jim Kirk? Vibrant, charismatic, full of life, he was a whirlwind of personality and charm who had a positive influence on everyone who came in contact with him. Our captain was one in a million – a man so perfectly suited for his chosen profession that he could no more cease doing it than stop breathing. There was a reason Jim Kirk was Starfleet's youngest captain – even the Top Brass, who are often clueless about what really matters to the rest of us peons, couldn't help but see the potential in the man. They were eager to see that potential realized; see what contribution it could make to furthering the tenets of the Federation, and the captain didn't disappoint. It was something we all saw, and felt, and experienced, and I believe it has made us better individuals in the long run. Jim Kirk may be gone, but each of us can say we had the privilege of knowing him, of working with him, of learning from him. The Klingons may have taken him from us, but they can never take that from us." McCoy paused, clearing his throat noisily, his lower lip trembling, knuckles white where they fiercely grasped the podium. After a few moments he managed to compose himself, soldiering bravely on.

"Now Commander Spock on the other hand; Spock was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. I'll be the first to admit that there were plenty of times that man got on my last nerve, but the bottom line is deep down, even though he'd never have admitted it out loud, he cared about all of us. What happened to us mattered to him, and true to his nature, he showed that with actions, not with words. He proved time and again that he'd be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice – did make the ultimate sacrifice – to ensure the safety of this ship and her crew, and to uphold the principles of the Federation. It is my firm belief that during their weeks of captivity our First Officer did everything in his power to protect the captain as well." The vision of the bruised and battered body swam before his eyes and he stopped, choking back a sob. "The fact that he may have failed in the end in no way diminishes the selfless act itself. If there's one thing that could be said about Commander Spock it's that he wasn't a selfish man. That everything he did was in pursuit of protecting and promoting the greater good, of ensuring the continued existence of those around him, even at his own expense. I doubt there's another being alive who could make the same claim. He may have been a mystery to us, but it's no mystery as to where we all stood with him. Each and every one of us was more important to him than his own life and that's the epitome of self-sacrifice.

"As to what each of them meant to you, personally, that's something you'll have to decide for yourselves, in the privacy of your own thoughts. As for me, I'll miss them both, more than I care to admit, but I can take comfort in the fact that my life was enriched just for having…known them," he finished softly, his voice cracking painfully on the last few words.

Sobs could be heard throughout the room, noses being blown, throats being cleared; eyes were dabbed at with tissues, wiped unceremoniously on the backs of sleeves. DeSalle stood suddenly. "Ten hut," he called, and everyone jumped to their feet, Scott included, eyes downcast, heads bowed. "Dismissed," he announced after a respectable amount of silence, and the room began to empty.

Scotty came to stand beside McCoy, who was clinging to the podium as if it were a life-raft adrift in frigid, stormy seas, head bowed, shoulders trembling slightly. Unsure of what to say, the engineer simply laid a compassionate hand on the man's forearm. McCoy looked up, his eyes red, puffy. "Was that okay, Scotty?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Aye," the Scotsman confirmed, a gentle smile creasing his brow. "Ye did good, Leonard."

oooOOOooo

The next two days passed uneventfully as the crew gradually came to grips with their loss. Scott noted with some satisfaction that the small talk and banter which had been a staple on the bridge during times of routine activity had begun again. People were laughing and joking with one another, and Uhura had started singing softly to herself again as she worked, a sure sign that the healing process had begun.

They were scheduled to reach Earth within the hour. Lieutenant Commander Giotto would be handling the prisoner transfer, while he and DeSalle met with senior personnel from Command in order to have their promotions and new postings finalized. That left the discharging of the bodies to their family members. Both mothers had asked to speak with a representative from the ship, and Scott had approached McCoy yesterday with the request. "Ye knew them better than anyone. If they have questions about their sons, odds are ye're the only one who can provide them with the answers they're seekin'. Do ye think ye're up to the task?" he'd asked.

He smiled to himself as he thought of the reply: A frown had touched McCoy's face, the man folding his arms across his chest: "As long as they don't plan on shooting the messenger; or the delivery boy; or whatever the hell the politically correct term is for a harbinger of death these days," the ship's surgeon had answered curtly.

Scotty's thoughts sobered quickly. He knew the flippant remark had hidden a deeper pain; that he had asked much of the doctor; perhaps more than the man would be able to give. True to his word, though, McCoy had agreed, despite the personal cost to himself.

oooOOOooo

_Stop fidgeting, McCoy_, he told himself angrily. He had been in a room located on one of the upper levels of an administration building at the Academy, waiting about twenty minutes now for his two friends' mothers to arrive. It had been decided to have the meeting here, rather than on the ship – it would afford the women more privacy, and would hopefully prevent them from asking to see the bodies. Jim's would have been okay, but just as he had done with Chapel, McCoy wanted to spare Spock's mother the pain of seeing the state her son's body was in. Even though he had never met the woman, he knew without question that it would be unbearable for her.

He'd been more than a little nervous about this meeting, dreading it, in fact. Scotty had informed him that Kirk's mother would likely be in a particularly fragile state. Her eldest son had been killed as well, a little over a week ago. _When it rains, it pours_, McCoy thought dourly. However, he understood all too well how important this was. In spite of his own feelings on the matter, he had to convince these two women that their sons had not died in vain; that their sacrifice, the one that would now ultimately be borne on the shoulders of their families, mattered; that they left behind a crew who had respected and admired them; that they would be sorely missed. He closed his eyes, massaging his temples in an attempt to banish the tenseness that had settled there. Once again, this was something he'd do not only as a favor to Scotty, but as a way to pay homage to the special relationship he had shared with these two men. As much as it would hurt, would dredge up powerful memories he'd have to contend with later, this would be the last thing he could do for either of them.

Rising to his feet he walked over to the desk, pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe resting there. Sipping at it, he wandered to the window, overlooking the Academy grounds. Classes must have just let out for the day, he surmised as a sea of crimson flowed forth from the building across the courtyard, bubbling down the wide, stone staircase, dispersing every which way once it hit ground level. He watched the cadets, thinking about his own days here, recalling stories Jim Kirk had told him about his time at the Academy. A sudden tightness enveloped his chest, as if steel bands had been slipped around it and were being cinched down mercilessly.

A noise behind him startled him as the door swished open, admitting two middle-aged  
women flanked by security personnel. One lady was clothed in a severe black dress with a stiff, high collar, the sleeves long, the bottom brushing the floor. _Spock's mother_, he reasoned. The dress alone conveyed the staid, aloof nature of the Vulcan people. She was not a tall woman, but carried herself regally nonetheless.

The other followed a few steps behind, her clothing more in line with the current styles of Earth. Taller than Spock's mother, he immediately saw the resemblance to Jim Kirk. The security team bowed out, the door closing quickly behind them, leaving the three of them alone. McCoy hurried over to greet the two women.

"Mrs. Kirk, Mrs. …," he stopped, flustered. In all the time he had known Spock, he'd never learned the man's surname. He was quickly set at ease as Spock's mother came to his rescue.

"Amanda, please," she said, extending her hand and favoring him with a gracious smile. "I'm afraid you couldn't pronounce the Vulcan surname." He grasped it, shaking it warmly, liking her instantly. _Spock would've been a helluva lot more fun if he'd been more like her_, he thought to himself.

"Winona Kirk," the other lady announced, reaching for McCoy's hand as well. "Doctor McCoy, I take it? Shall we sit?" she said, gesturing to a low couch along the near wall.

_So much like Jim_, he thought immediately as the three of them made their way to the regulation furniture. _That 'take charge' attitude. Must be where Jim got it,_ he mused silently, seating himself in a chair across from the women.

An awkward silence settled over the room, everyone at a loss for words. McCoy took it upon himself to break it. "First off, I'd like to say how sorry we all are for your losses. Mrs. Kirk, if it's not too presumptuous of me, we were informed of the passing last week of your other son. You have my deepest condolences, ma'am. This is more than any mother should have to contend with."

Winona acknowledged the sentiment with a slight nod of her head, Amanda reaching out and grasping her hand. Winona covered it with her own and the two mothers' eyes met, a silent message passing between them.

McCoy continued hesitantly. "The new captain and first officer asked me to pass on their regrets that they couldn't be here today. They're being sworn in to their new positions, so I guess you're stuck with me," he finished weakly.

"Nonsense," Winona interjected. "Seems to me I've heard your name before. Jimmy mentioned it a few times in tapes he sent home."

"All good, I hope?" McCoy asked somewhat self-consciously.

"He said you were a good friend, and he trusted your advice, just like he trusted Mister Spock's." A frown of concentration creased her brow. "What was that nickname he had for you?"

"Bones," McCoy squeezed out, the tightness migrating from his chest to his throat.

"Yes, that was it. So what can you tell us about our sons?" she asked, handily dismissing the small talk.

"Well, they were the finest command team in the fleet, honored and respected by their crew—"

"No, that's not what I meant," Winona interrupted forcefully. "I meant, what can you _tell_ us about our sons; about the men they were?"

McCoy chewed his lower lip, straightening in his chair. "Despite their obvious differences in personality, they were the best of friends."

"That's more than I knew," Amanda remarked in hushed tones. "Like all Vulcans, Spock kept his personal relationships very close to the chest. I spent the last eighteen years wondering if he'd finally found acceptance, and friendship. I knew of the more public aspects of his life – his promotions, commendations and such – but little to nothing about the personal side. I'd like to hear more about this part of him."

"I'd like to hear more as well," Winona chimed in. Jimmy mentioned Spock; that he considered him a close friend, not just a first officer, but not in great detail."

Two sets of eyes bored into McCoy. He tried to oblige them. "I'm not sure I can explain it – it was a rather unconventional friendship, between two very different people: Jim warm, outgoing, charismatic, impulsive; Spock quiet, reserved, very buttoned-up and methodical in his approach to things, but they couldn't have been closer. They were able to see past their differences and find the things they had in common; loyalty, devotion to duty, Starfleet and their crew, but most importantly compassion. They each – in their own way, of course – cared deeply about those around them. Duty is what drew them together initially, but as it turned out, it was their differences that bound them, each to the other. Each was able to learn from the other; to draw on those qualities he didn't possess, but were an integral part of the other. In a way, it made them stronger together than they were separately. They were almost like brothers – had their disagreements, sometimes heated, but were always able to put those aside and focus on their respect and admiration for each other."

"It kinda makes sense," Winona whispered. "When they were boys Jimmy and Sam, my oldest, were like two peas in a pod, but as they grew, their interests diverged, and they drifted apart somewhat. It seems fitting that he gained with Spock that which he had lost with his own brother."

"Unfortunately, Spock never had that kind of bond. He was never accepted by his peers on Vulcan. Growing up as a hybrid was a difficult, lonely path for him. It gives me peace, and great joy, to know that he had finally found friendship, and acceptance." Amanda favored McCoy with a questioning look. "You seem to know so much about my son, Doctor. Were you Spock's friend, too?"

McCoy couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Spock and I had a very unique relationship to one another. I'm not sure I'd call it friendship in the way he and Jim were friends, but despite how we grated on each other's nerves – and we did, trust me – I genuinely liked the man. I'd like to think that he felt the same." He stopped abruptly, the tightness returning.

Amanda smiled at him. "Yes, Doctor, just in the short time I've spoken with you it's plainly obvious that you and my son were very different people, but I'm quite sure he felt the same. As a rule, Spock limited his contact with people he didn't care for. The fact that he interacted with you at all outside of his professional responsibility is a sure-fire indicator that Spock considered you more than just a colleague."

"Well, he must have felt some attachment to all of us, then. I can't think of a single person he avoided on the ship, and he went out of his way to mentor promising young officers. Not that he couldn't provide firm discipline when necessary – Jim, too – but it was never ill-placed, or abused. The crew always knew where they stood with them. They respected and admired each of them because of it, not in spite of it.

"That's not to say there weren't folks who were put off by Spock's unemotional, unfeeling approach to things. At times, we were all guilty of it. Hell, I was probably more so than most, but that was the thing about Jim. To him, Spock was just Spock, and unlike the rest of us, the captain accepted him for who he was, warts and all. Jim never tried to mold Spock into something he wasn't, or couldn't be, but simply let him _be_, and delighted in those rare occasions when the real Spock – the side of himself he kept so carefully hidden from the rest of us – would tentatively peek out."

Amanda seemed oblivious to the tears coursing down her cheeks. She turned to Winona, squeezing the woman's hand. "Thank you."

"For what?" Kirk's mother replied, her own eyes swimming with tears.

"For raising a son who was able to accept mine for who he was, and was able to offer Spock the friendship, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging he so desperately needed. That, more than anything in the universe, puts my mind at ease with regard to what happened. It gives me a strange feeling of peace to know that his best friend was with him when the end came."

"Doctor, please," Winona said, still clinging to Amanda's hand, "What killed our sons? We have a right to know." A corresponding pressure let her know that Spock's mother felt the same.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't have an answer for you." He dropped his gaze, unable to meet their questioning eyes. "It wasn't the Klingons, if that's any consolation. It just seemed that their brains shut down, if that makes any sense." Both the doctor's eyes and Winona's were drawn to Amanda as she gasped suddenly.

Collecting herself, Spock's mother began speaking in hushed tones. "It sounds as if Spock simply willed his life to end." At their questioning looks, she attempted to clarify the statement. "Vulcans have the ability to retreat so deeply within their minds that they will die, unless led back to consciousness by a healer."

"That would explain a lot," McCoy interjected, his eyes widening.

"I don't understand," Winona said tearfully. "That explains things for Spock, but what about my Jimmy? He certainly wasn't able to do that, so why did his brain shut down, unless it was something the Klingons did to him?"

"If he was linked to Spock's mind at the instance of death, his mind would have ceased to function as well," Amanda explained softly. Two pairs of pain-filled eyes sought out McCoy's.

He licked his lips, torn between how much to reveal, and dealing with the sense of loss these two women were experiencing. "That seems plausible. It was verified under truth serum that the Klingons didn't kill them. If nothing else, Spock was extremely loyal to Jim, and I doubt he would have willed himself to die if it would have meant leaving Jim alone to deal with the Klingons. Spock wasn't selfish that way. I don't know if it means anything, ma'am," he said, addressing Spock's mother, "but their hands were clasped together when we beamed them aboard, even though they were already dead."

"That confirms it for me. Being a touch telepath, Spock didn't engage in casual physical contact with others – it made him receptive to too many alien thoughts and emotions. It just reinforces the notion that their minds were bound together at the end. But why would they choose death? Why would they abandon hope of rescue?" Her eyes met McCoy's. "Were they tortured?" Amanda asked, her voice edged with sorrow. The doctor found he couldn't lie in the face of such naked, unabashed anguish.

"Yes, I'm afraid they were, but—"

The conversation was interrupted as the door swished open, admitting the new Command Team. Gone was Scotty's familiar red engineer's tunic. He was now dressed in command gold, two solid stripes encircling his wrist, confirming his promotion to full commander. DeSalle followed at his shoulder, a broken stripe joining the solid one on his sleeve.

"Ladies, I'm Commander Montgomery Scott," the new captain began without preamble. "This is my First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Vincent DeSalle," he said, the man behind him extending his hand to the two women. "I'm sorry we were delayed, but we had some business to attend to with Command. We wish to express our deepest condolences on the loss of your sons…"

oooOOOooo

*REserve FLeet EXecutive Officer Training Program. In my 'fanon,' this is a program Kirk and Spock proposed to Command to train the next generation of starship First Officers. It is meant to offer an explanation for why DeSalle was both a navigator and scientist in season one of TOS, but the assistant Chief Engineer (complete with requisite red shirt) during season two. For a more thorough explanation of the program, see chapter one of my story 'Six Degrees of Separation.'


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

McCoy sat alone in his quarters, sipping at the bourbon he had denied himself a few days ago. Images of two mounds of dark, rich soil, shaded beneath an ancient oak tree filled his vision.

Amanda had wanted to bury Spock at the Academy, but Winona had convinced her to lay him to rest beside Jim in the Kirk family plot. They had been brothers until the very end, she'd argued, and deserved to have that devotion, that bond to one another maintained for all eternity. She'd promised Spock's mother she'd look after his grave, just as she would Jim's, and that Amanda could come and visit him whenever she wanted.

It had been a small ceremony – the two mothers, Winona's friend Minnie, and Scott, DeSalle and himself the only ones in attendance. Spock's father had been called away several days ago to deal with a major diplomatic incident, and had been unable to participate. A local pastor had said a few words – not that Jim or Spock had placed much stock in the Almighty – but it seemed fitting, and did offer some measure of comfort to the grieving mothers.

Afterward they'd all retired to the farmhouse for a bite to eat, but McCoy had wandered back to the small graveyard, seating himself in the damp grass near the freshly-tilled earth.

"There's no getting around it," he'd whispered. "Somehow I always knew I'd be the one left behind." A single tear had traced a trail slowly down his cheek. "I'm gonna miss the two of you. So many relationships in my life have gone wrong, but I always felt safe with the two of you, despite my faults and flaws. You knew they were there, but didn't hold them against me. I always knew that, no matter what, I could count on you two to be there for me. I just wish I could have been there for you when you needed me the most." He'd stopped, startled, glancing up as a soft hand had landed on his shoulder.

"Chin up, Bones," Winona Kirk had admonished. "I'll have none of that guilt, and I suspect, neither would they. They died doing what they loved, and were together when the end came. Would that the rest of us could be so lucky."

The image faded abruptly, and he raised his glass. _Here's to you_, he thought silently. _I'll never forget either of you._ Downing the remainder of his drink, he rested his head on his arms, closing his eyes, utterly spent. This was his final goodbye, for life continued its relentless march around him, despite the fact that they were no longer at his side. He sighed heavily, finally at peace with things. It was time to move on. He'd fulfilled his duty; he'd brought them home.


End file.
